


Be Still and Know

by purplehairedwonder



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:29:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplehairedwonder/pseuds/purplehairedwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With most things, Damon wasn't sure of what he'd had until he lost it. Alaric was no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Still and Know

**Author's Note:**

> Story title comes from the obligatory “Be Still” by The Fray. Because what else can you write Dalaric to?

With most things, Damon wasn’t sure of what he’d had until he’d lost it.

In a life long past, he’d been willing to give his humanity away for Katherine, but it wasn’t until Stefan had forced his transformation that Damon had cared about what he’d lost. He turned bitter in Katherine’s absence and rather than be haunted by watching humans born, age, and die around him as he stayed forever young, Damon found distractions, whether in the form of fun with Sage, tormenting Stefan, or inventing his own entertainment.

Damon had let his obsession to free Katherine from the tomb define him for decades, but it wasn’t until he realized she’d never been there that he understood he’d never had her to begin with. She’d loved Stefan and had used Damon because he was convenient and close to Stefan. It was easier to hate the bitch than regret what had happened because he’d been young and naïve. He’d turned hard to avoid being fooled like that ever again.

Of course, things never went as planned. He’d intellectually known that Elena wasn’t Katherine from the moment she’d spoken the night they met on the bridge before he compelled her to forget, but it wasn’t until he’d seen her unwavering desire to bring Stefan back from the edge over and over again that he realized he was just falling into old patterns.

And it was when Elena chose Stefan again, this time as a vampire, and Damon had felt more resigned than anything that he understood that he was more in the love of the idea of Elena than Elena herself. He’d gone to a lot of trouble for her sake and they had undeniable physical chemistry, but so had he and Katherine and look how that had turned out.

So with all that heartbreak in his past, Damon thought he’d understood a thing or two about love. But it wasn’t until the day of Alaric’s funeral that Damon realized he’d been completely wrong about all of it.

With most things, Damon wasn’t sure of what he’d had until he’d lost it.

The funeral had been small, as only a few people understood and saw nothing to forgive of the vampire-hunting history teacher, but it had been people who had cared for Alaric and he’d cared for in return, from his students to his makeshift family and his friends. They’d all said overly emotional things around sniffles and tears because they’d all loved Alaric in their own ways. But when it was Damon’s turn, he opened his mouth only to realize he _couldn’t_.

Alaric been many things in life—stubborn, brave, haunted, loyal, broken, caring, and beautifully, tragically human—but none of the words seemed to do him justice. He was Alaric. And he’d been Damon’s best friend. And that really just said it all as far as Damon was concerned. Damon didn’t _have_ friends, yet there Alaric had been.

But when Damon opened his mouth to say it, the words caught in his throat. He tried again with as little success. He’d ignored the sympathetic, and maybe a bit little knowing, looks he’d gotten before Elena covered for him.

After their makeshift service and everyone had left, Damon stood over Alaric’s grave. They’d buried his desiccated vampire body next to Jenna’s and both graves were covered with flowers. Damon, on the other hand, held a bottle of Ric’s favorite bourbon. He was about to pour it over the grave in tribute when he decided to take a long draught of it instead.

It burned going down and Damon blamed the tears in his eyes on the alcohol. When his vision cleared again, he was still in a cemetery standing over his best friend’s grave, so he took another gulp and then threw the bottle against a nearby tree as hard as he could. It crashed loudly and glass and alcohol exploded in all directions. Birds flew from the tree with distressed chirps. As they damn well should; how could anyone be happy today?

“Dammit!” Damon yelled. “Ric, you weren’t supposed to fucking leave me too!”

He sank to his knees as the words echoed around him. _You weren’t supposed to leave me, too._ They’d come out without him meaning to, but they felt right. Everyone kept leaving him.

Stefan left him for Katherine, for Klaus, for Elena.

Katherine left him for Stefan, for herself, for Stefan again.

Elena left him for Stefan over and over again.

And now Alaric had left him too, dead in his arms not once, but twice.

But somehow Alaric’s absence hurt the most. Though he hadn’t known Ric for long, the hunter had still seemed like a stable anchor in the shitstorm that was Damon’s life and he’d never felt as hollow as he did at the man’s graveside. But Damon sat there as the sun set, as the stars came out, and as the moon rose anyway. He sat and he thought about the first time he’d seen Alaric and the strange magnetism he’d felt toward him.

About the mission to rescue Stefan and the arrow that had saved Damon’s life rather than ending it that had started their whole friendship.

About nights drinking at the Grill or in his living room—or both—while they bitched and laughed and shot the shit because no one else in the town really understood them.

About sparring matches in the backyard or sometimes in Alaric’s loft where Alaric kept his skills sharp and Damon came to be grateful they’d become friends rather than remain enemies.

About that stupid little smirk Alaric would get when he’d gotten the upper hand on Damon, whether they’d been verbally or physically sparring, that Damon started throwing matches or sticking his foot in his mouth more often to see again.

It was after midnight and Damon was wishing he hadn’t thrown the alcohol away because he was starting to feel again when he heard her approach.  She was much quieter now, in her new form, though still a bit clumsy as she got used to her new body. The first weeks after the transformation were the hardest, but she seemed to be doing well enough.

She came up behind him but kept a respectable distance. “I thought I’d find you here,” she said quietly.

Damon said nothing in reply. Because really, where else was he going to be? Drunk off his ass in the basement of the boarding house, maybe. That sounded somewhat appealing, actually. Maybe what he needed to fill the hollowness was more alcohol; even if that didn’t work, he’d at least be too far gone to notice for a while.

“Damon—”

“What, Elena?” Damon snapped, turning to look at her.

“I, uh, I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” she stuttered, clearly taken aback by Damon’s sharp tone.

“Oh yeah,” Damon drawled, “I’m sitting at my best friend’s grave after watching him die. Twice. I’m just peachy.”

“We all miss him,” Elena said gently. “We all loved him.”

“Not like me,” Damon retorted. And then his eyes widened as he realized what he’d said. His mouth worked but no sound came out.

But Elena, rather than looking shocked—or even mildly surprised—had a frustratingly understanding look on her face. She’d known. Hell, maybe everyone had known. Well, everyone except for Damon. He was always the last to figure these things out.

 _I loved him_ , he thought, eyes still wide. _I loved him_. Not the way he’d loved Katherine or even Elena. No, that was something different. He’d thought being forced to turn into a vampire or finding out that Katherine had been out of the tomb all along had broken him. He’d thought Elena choosing Stefan over and over was going to slowly grind his heart into dust. But those things had been nothing, had been superficial in comparison. _This_ was something so strong that it had hollowed him out completely to lose.

And Damon, being the damn fool that he was, hadn’t noticed it sneaking up on him. But as he thought back to those memories of Alaric, of those times together, of drunken arms thrown around each other’s shoulders, of playful shoves, and of sparring matches with touches that lingered longer than necessary, it _finally_ clicked.

He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it.

And now he’d never get to tell Ric. And that only made the whole damn thing hurt _more._ Fuck.

“Jeremy saw him, you know.”

Damon started at Elena’s voice. He’d forgotten she was there while he’d been lost in his thoughts.

“What?”

“Right after he, you know,” she said, with an arm wave that apparently meant ‘died.’ “Alaric appeared to him in the house. The _real_ Ric,” she clarified at Damon’s look.

Of course ghost boy would be the one to see him. Damon swallowed. “What... what did he say?”

Elena gave him a sad smile. “According to Jeremy, he said that he was sorry and that he’d always be here if we needed him.”

Damon took a moment to process that. “So what, now he’s a ghost hanging around?”

Elena shrugged. “Jeremy says he hasn’t seen him since, but the house just _feels_ safe, kind of like he’s there.” She laughed self-deprecatingly at that. “That probably sounds stupid. Wishful thinking or whatever.”

 _No_ , Damon wanted to say, _that sounds nice._ And _I wish he’d appear to me because I miss him so damn much and how did I have no idea I was in love with my best friend?_ But he just shrugged instead.

Elena nodded to herself. “Anyway, I’ll leave you alone. But Damon, there are people waiting for you when you get back. You’re not alone.”

Damon nodded absently and turned back to the grave. He barely noticed when Elena disappeared and he was left to his thoughts again—thoughts of every moment he’d spent with Alaric, of when they were buddies and when they wanted to strangle each other, of when they fought and when they drank together.

It was those thoughts that stayed with him all night. If Damon concentrated hard enough, he could hear Alaric’s voice ringing in his ears like welcome music and feel the touch of his skin, so warm and _alive_. But all good dreams have to end, and the sun was coming up when Damon finally pushed himself to his feet.

When the first ray of sunlight fell across the grave, Damon felt an arm drape around his shoulders. Damon didn’t need to look around to know that there was no one else around; he would have heard them. Instead, he closed his eyes and felt his lips curl up in a small smile. Maybe it wasn’t too late, after all.

“Hey Ric.”

_\- fin -_

  



End file.
